


call me a safe bet (i'm betting i'm not)

by endlessnighttimesky



Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - College/University, Cuddling & Snuggling, M/M, Photography, References to Past Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-03
Updated: 2013-03-03
Packaged: 2017-12-04 05:53:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/707276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/endlessnighttimesky/pseuds/endlessnighttimesky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frank wonders if it's pathetic that he still does this, that he still waits up, still worries. Maybe not pathetic, but... sort of sad, he supposes. Yeah, that's probably what people would call it. Call <i>him</i>. Sad.</p><p>He isn't, though. He's not sad. He was, in the beginning, right after, but that passed. It took a while, and a few appointments with his therapist, but it passed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	call me a safe bet (i'm betting i'm not)

**Author's Note:**

> You probably don't believe me, but this was supposed to be fluffy and cute. But... that didn't happen. Obviously.
> 
> Title from _The Boy Who Blocked His Own Shot_ by Brand New.

Frank wonders if it’s pathetic that he still does this, that he still waits up, still worries. Maybe not pathetic, but... sort of sad, he supposes. Yeah, that’s probably what people would call it. Call _him_. Sad.

He isn’t, though. He’s not sad. He was, in the beginning, right after, but that passed. It took a while, and a few appointments with his therapist, but it passed.

Now he’s just worried - not overly, he wouldn’t say, but enough to keep him up. It’s this deep ache in his chest, just a faint memory of the paralyzing pain he felt back then, but again, it’s enough. He doesn’t need much, these days.

 _Tap_.

Frank freezes, heart skipping a beat as it relocates to his throat. He looks up from his notebook, eyes passing the alarm clock on his nightstand – 1:27 AM, fuck, it’s really getting late now – before they settle on the window. The moon is high on the sky outside, bright even through the smog of the city, although the stars are hazy, hidden. Frank misses them a little.

 _Tap_.

This time, Frank sees the pebble hit the glass. He breathes out, long and heavy. About time.

When he opens the window and looks down, it’s to find Gerard on the lawn below, feet planted wide but still swaying a little, unsteady on his legs. Of course.

“Gee!” Frank’s voice is something between a whisper and a hiss, because Gerard has his back to him, head tipped back as he gazes at the sky. “Gerard!”

Turning around, Gerard almost trips over his feet, but he throws his arms out, regaining balance. When he looks up at Frank, he’s smiling, slack and toothy, his drunken smile. “Hi!”

“Gee, what the fuck are you doing?” Frank asks, trying to keep his voice down, because at least he can. Gerard, on the other hand, seems to have lost all control over his volume. Thank God he isn’t one of those really loud drunks, or half the dorm would probably be awake by now.

“I can – I can’t get in,” Gerard slurs, giggling while somehow managing to sound sad. “I lost my – my key. Or forgot it. I don’t – I don’t really remember. But I – I can’t get in.”

Frank rubs at his eyes, feeling his eyelids droop. “I’ll come down and open for you. Go to the door, yeah?”

“Yeah. You’re the best, Frankie.”

Frank just smiles, unable to make himself sigh at Gerard’s current state of being – the relief outweighs the worry, at least for now. Tomorrow, though, that’s another thing.

Gerard throws his arms around Frank’s neck pretty much as soon as he opens the door, and he doesn’t let go, so Frank ends up hauling him up the stairs and into their room. By the time he’s done that, Gerard is looking positively green, and not as much as a second later he’s bent over the toilet bowl in the bathroom, puking up whatever got in him this particular night. Jack Daniel’s, most likely. Maybe some vodka, too, if he was feeling extra shitty and needed a quick fix.

Holding back Gerard’s hair while he throws up isn’t really something Frank enjoys, but it’s better than washing puke out of it, so Frank doesn’t complain. It’s not like he _has_ to do this, anyway – Gerard is a seasoned alcoholic, he knows how it’s done. There was a time before Frank, after all, although it doesn’t really feel like it, for either of them.

“You okay?” Frank asks as Gerard rests his head on the toilet seat, cheek pressed against the cold porcelain, stroking hair away from his face with a trembling hand.

“Mm-hm,” Gerard hums, sounding miserable. Frank’s heart clenches.

“I’m gonna get you some painkillers.”

“Mm-hm,” Gerard says again, not moving the slightest, the faint but steady rise of his chest the only indication he’s alive. For Frank, though, it’s enough – after all, there was a time when that was all he had to go by.

“Okay,” Frank says softly, getting up from the floor to retrieve a water glass and a bottle of Aspirin. “Here.”

Gerard groans, careful to keep his head steady as he props himself against the side of the bathtub, because his brain feels a little like it’ll dislocate if he makes any sudden movements. He takes the pills from Frank, tipping his head back and chasing them down with the water. After swallowing, he takes another mouthful, but spits that out in the toilet, rinsing his mouth from the taste of vomit. Frank flushes, the sound achingly loud in Gerard’s ears, but comforting, too. An assurance that he’s alive, because for a while there, he wasn’t really sure.

“Come on,” Frank says, bending down to hoist Gerard up, arms tight around his back. “Let’s get you into bed.”

“Mm, bed,” Gerard mumbles, face-planting in Frank’s sheets as soon as they get past the threshold, pulling Frank down with him.

“Wrong bed, idiot,” Frank says, quietly amused.

Gerard mutters something slightly similar to, “Whatever,” but he’s still slurring his words a little and his mouth is pressed into Frank’s pillows, so Frank can’t really make out the syllables.

“At least share,” Frank says, pulling one of the pillows out from under Gerard’s head and stuffing it under his own.

“What are you doing?” Gerard says a minute or two after Frank closes his eyes, sounding confused, sad, and maybe a little hurt.

Frank forces his eyelids apart, and yeah, there it is, Gerard’s confused-sad-hurt face, complete with disappointed eyebrows.

“Sleeping?” Frank says, like a question, because it’s probably not the right answer.

With a noise that’s something between a sigh and a huff, Gerard grabs Frank’s arm and wraps it around himself, curling up against Frank’s chest.

“Oh,” Frank breathes, now into Gerard’s hair, because all of a sudden his head is tucked under Frank’s chin and Frank can feel his breath on his chest, warm and damp.

Gerard makes a happy sound, snuggling a little closer, throwing an arm over Frank’s waist. “Wanna sleep now.”

“Yeah,” Frank mumbles, hoping Gerard can’t hear the way his heart is pounding in his chest. “Sleep.”

§ § §

If he could, Gerard would wake up like this every morning. Maybe not with the killer headache, or the sour taste in his mouth, but if that’s what’s required, he’d take it. As long as he gets to wake up in Frank’s arms.

Or, have Frank wake up in his arms, because Frank, it turns out, is even more of a sleep-cuddler than Gerard, if that’s even possible. Either way, they’re all tangled up now, Gerard lying on his back with Frank plastered to his side, arm around his shoulders and one of Frank’s legs hooked around his. Frank’s face is pressed into his neck, and he’s breathing softly over Gerard’s collarbone and his own arm, which lies heavy on Gerard’s chest, a tattooed hand tucked under Gerard’s neck.

As if he somehow knows Gerard just woke up, Frank stirs, making noises Gerard has gotten used to by now, after the countless mornings of Frank waking up across the room, groaning and moaning under his covers.

Tired eyes blinking open, Frank shifts beside Gerard, stretching and yawning.

“We slept through the alarm,” is the first thing he says, lifting his head to look at the clock. 10:44 AM. On a Wednesday. They deserve a fucking award for that.

Gerard groan-hums, too tired to form actual words – that would require caffeine.

“Don’t you have class?” Frank asks, sounding more concerned than he’s acting, because he’s lying down now too, burrowing under Gerard’s arm.

“Prob’ly,” Gerard mumbles. “Wouldn’t have gone anyway. Now c’mere.”

“Maybe I have class,” Frank says, just to see Gerard’s reaction.

“Don’t care. I want cuddles. And coffee.”

Frank grins and lets Gerard tug him even closer. “Sounds like a plan.”

§ § §

It’s an awesome plan. The best ever, Frank thinks, because it’s true – he’s such a fucking whore for cuddles. He’s not as open about it as Gerard, at least not around other people, but with Gerard, it’s a different thing. When they’re alone in their room, doing whatever, Frank can just plop down beside Gerard on his bed and Gerard won’t lift an eyebrow, just his arm to put it over Frank’s shoulders and pull him close. It’s one of the many things Frank loves about Gerard.

If Gerard’s caffeine addiction is another of those things, Frank isn’t sure. He doesn’t really mind it, but without coffee Gerard’s usually the grumpiest person on the planet (today is more the exception, and not the rule). It’s sort of cute to see him trying to navigate their room before his triple-shot espresso, though.

But of course, Gerard’s not the only one with addictions. Frank could definitely go for a cup of coffee or two right now, and if not that, then at least a cigarette. His fingers feel twitchy, and there’s this buzz at the back of his mind, the kind he knows only nicotine can silence.

“Wanna go for a drive?” he asks Gerard, because they have to at least give the impression that they’re mature, responsible adults, even though they totally aren’t, and most likely never will be.

“Where?” Gerard asks, not opening his eyes.

“Dunno. Somewhere. We could get coffee at that diner, y’know, with the vegan pancakes?” Frank hopes that’s enough of a bribe to get Gerard out of bed.

Lifting his head from the pillow he’s buried his face in, Gerard looks at Frank, looking suspicious and hopeful at the same time. “I’m out of smokes,” he says slowly, as if to gauge Frank’s reaction.

Of course. Frank almost expected this – usually coffee is enough to lure Gerard outside, but if he hasn’t got a pack of cigarettes of his own, you’ll have to supply those too, or you might as well give up already.

That doesn’t mean Frank can’t make his own demands, though. “Only if you shower.”

Gerard squints. “Do I have to wash my hair?”

“ _Especially_ your hair.”

“It’s not Newports, though, is it?”

“Marlboros.”

When Gerard sighs, Frank knows he’s won.

§ § §

“You know I hate it when you do that,” Gerard says, but he doesn’t make any move to disarm Frank of his camera.

Frank grins from behind the lens and snaps another shot, trying to capture the exact way Gerard’s cheeks hollow when breathes in the smoke from his cigarette. It seems to be another one of those things that can’t really be captured – much like Gerard’s smile when Frank tells him how pretty a subject he is, or everything Gerard’s art makes him feel.

“You draw me all the time,” Frank counters, lowering the camera and bringing his own cigarette to his lips. He takes a deep breath, pulling the smoke all the way down to his lungs, relishing the burn. “You even painted me, once.”

“That was for a project,” Gerard mutters. “It’s different.”

“That’s my point. No one’s gonna see these,” Frank says, lifting his camera slightly, indicating the photos he just took. He forces himself not to blush when he says softly, “They’re just for me.”

Tearing his gaze from the horizon, Gerard fixes Frank with a smile that Frank has no idea what it means, but that he knows he likes, and wants to see again. It’s a lot like that smile Frank can’t seem to capture, but there’s something different in his eyes, something warmer, more intimate.

It makes Frank’s stomach churn in a way that seems inappropriate but also inevitable, like this was all just a matter of time. Now that he thinks about it, it probably was.

“I don’t use them in my projects because I know you wouldn’t want me to,” he says, just to break the silence. “I don’t mind when you paint me, though.”

“Why, though?”

Frank grins. “You know exactly why. Plus, you’re probably the pickiest person I know when it comes to choosing subjects. You’ve turned down actual, honest-to-God _models_ , but never me. It does things to a guy’s ego, you know.”

“I’ve given you an attention complex, is that what you’re saying?”

“Yeah. That and a cuddling addiction.”

Gerard smiles (not that he ever really stopped) and throws the remnants of his cigarette over the ledge, watching as it drops into the water below. He turns to Frank. “You had that problem long before you met me, don’t even lie.”

“But you’re sustaining it,” Frank says, poking Gerard in the ribs. “Which makes you just as bad.”

Gerard hums, still grinning. “You promised me coffee.”

“Mm. I did, didn’t I?”

“And pancakes.”

Turning away, Frank grabs Gerard’s gloved hand, pulling him along towards the car. Over his shoulder, he says, “I didn’t say I’d get you pancakes, I said we were going to the diner _with_ the pancakes.”

“But you’re gonna get them, which means I’ll steal off your plate.”

“You’re the worst freeloader I’ve ever met, I swear.”

“But you’re sustaining it!”

§ § §

The diner is a dirty, seedy place, but they both love it. Greta, one of the waitresses, is probably one of the most badass chicks Frank’s ever met. If he weren’t so into dick, he’d totally ask her out. She’d most likely turn him down, though – she’s got the whole independent-woman-who-don’t-need-no-man thing going for her, and with the way she talks about Vicky-T sometimes, Frank guesses she’s lesbian, or at least bi.

Greta isn’t the only good thing about the diner, though. There’s the coffee – a cup of which Gerard currently has his nose in, gulping the bitter liquid as if it’s water – and of course, the pancakes. They’re completely vegan, and they’re served with fresh berries and syrup, and Frank swears he would live off them for the rest of his life if he could.

“What actually happened last night?” Gerard asks through a mouthful of them.

Swallowing his own mouthful, but of coffee, Frank sets his cup down and props his chin in his hand. “You got drunk,” he says. “You came home, you threw up, you went to sleep. That’s pretty much it.”

“I thought I forgot my key,” Gerard says, brows furrowing.

“Yeah, um, basically you threw pebbles at our window until I came down to let you in.”

Gerard squints. “That was before the puking, though, right?”

Frank nods, bringing another chunk of pancake to his mouth. “Yeah. All vomit-related action was confined to our bathroom. No public embarrassment.”

For a moment or so, Gerard is quiet, then he says, “You held my hair.”

Again, Frank nods. “It was either that or having to wash puke out of it later.”

“Ew,” Gerard says, but that’s pretty much the extent of his reaction, because a second later he launches into a rant about something – maybe gender issues, maybe gazelles. Knowing Gerard, it might as well be both.

Frank isn’t listening too closely, though, instead focusing more on what he can see – Gerard’s hands, playing with the handle of his cup and the napkin beneath it, and his mouth, lips closing and parting around syllables. His eyes are bright, despite the dark rings beneath them, and his wild hair is pushed back by a pair of sunglasses and hidden underneath a hoodie, although some strands have still managed to escape, curling over his temples and cheeks.

For a while, Frank thinks he can handle it, wanting to believe that he has at least some sort of self-control. But then Gerard brings up a black-painted nail to bite at, and that’s it. It’s not like Gerard doesn’t already know, anyway.

So Frank does it – he leans over the table, curling his fingers around Gerard’s hand to get him to lower it, before he presses his lips to Gerard’s, close-mouthed and chaste.

From an outside perspective, it probably looks like they’ve done it a thousand times – shared kisses over coffee and pancakes. But they can both feel the telltale rush in their chests, creeping upwards until they’re both blushing.

When Frank pulls back, Gerard is hazy-eyed and speechless, cheeks tinted pink.

“Frank,” he chokes out, when his brain gets back online.

Frank is just smiling, chin propped in his hand across from Gerard. “Yeah?”

“You kissed me,” Gerard says, dumbfounded.

“I did.”

Gerard squints, eyes still a little unfocused. His nose scrunches up that way it always does when he’s confused. “Were you trying to shut me up?”

“Maybe,” Frank says, running his fingertips over the hand Gerard now has splayed on the table. “Maybe not. Maybe I just wanted to kiss you.”

Another moment passes and Gerard still looks confused, but then his face relaxes, tension giving way for that soft smile he gave Frank when they smoked on the bridge. “Really?”

“Yes, dipshit, _really_. I don’t joke about these things, you know.”

Gerard knows that, of course he does, but it’s ingrained in him, the doubt, the worry. It helps when Frank says it, though.

“Does this mean we can shower together now?”

Frank laughs, loud and happy. “We’ll have to, after what I’m planning on doing to you when we get home. Or have you do to me. Either way, it’ll get messy.”

Gerard grins. “I like messy.”

Frank smiles right back. “Don’t I know.”

§ § §

“Fuck,” Gerard says, completely breathless. “Holy shit.”

“You’re telling me,” Frank pants at the ceiling, bouncing a little when Gerard collapses beside him, mattress creaking below them. He curls up against Gerard’s side, head resting on his chest and one arm slung over his waist. “I’m gonna be sore for a week,” he mumbles, lips pressed to Gerard’s skin. “Can still feel you.”

Gerard just groans at that.

They lie in silence for a while, Frank tracing invisible patterns on Gerard’s cooling skin and pressing tiny kisses over all the love bites he left.

“Do you worry about me?” Gerard asks suddenly, sounding… curious, somehow, but still apprehensive.

“What do you mean?” Frank asks, pushing himself up on one elbow so he can see Gerard’s face properly.

“I mean – you were awake, yesterday, when I got home. I know I could’ve just woken you up, that’s what the pebbles were for, but I just… I don’t think I did. I think you were awake. Waiting. For… me.”

Frank stays silent for another moment, and then lies back down, and in the tiniest voice Gerard has ever heard, he says, “I was awake.”

“I thought so,” Gerard says, just as quiet. “Ever since – ever since I – ever since it happened, you’ve worried. I know you have. And I just… I feel guilty, I guess.”

“Don’t,” Frank says quickly. “Please don’t. I don’t blame you, okay? I was there, I know how shitty everything was. I saw it, and I don’t blame you. But – like, imagine if it was me. You’d worry, too.”

“Yeah,” Gerard says. “Shit, I totally would. And I’d be a total wreck, too – you’ve always managed to hold yourself together. I could never do that. Not as well as you, at least.”

“I was a wreck, trust me. Before you woke up – God. Things were bad. Really fucking bad. I think the doctors were as worried about me as they were about you, at least once you got stable. And they could monitor you. I spent all my time there, sure, but I wouldn’t talk to anyone. No one really knew what was going on with me, except the obvious.”

Out of instinct, Gerard pulls Frank a little closer, tightening the grip around his back. “You’ve never told me this before,” he mumbles. “We – we’ve never really talked about it. I mean, you talked to your therapist and I talked to mine, but we never talked to each other.”

“Yeah, like, when you woke up, I couldn’t really think about anything else. You were _alive_ , and that was all that mattered. I didn’t care about anything else. I guess I still haven’t really passed that stage.”

“It’s been four years,” Gerard says, but his tone isn’t reprimanding or mocking or disappointed. He’s just stating a fact. “Why do you think it’s still like that?”

“You failed,” Frank answers, eyes on his hand where it’s lying on Gerard’s stomach, watching his own fingers as they interlock with Gerard’s. “And… when people fail, they try again. So they can succeed.”

Suddenly, Gerard’s throat feels dry, constricted. “I’m not – “ he croaks out. “I wouldn’t – it’s not gonna happen again, Frank. Tell me you believe me when I say that. It’s not gonna happen again.”

Frank looks at their intertwined hands for another minute, then glances up at Gerard. “Promise?” He hates himself for saying it, for doubting Gerard, but despite having learned to live with it by now, the fear is overwhelming. It doesn’t go away.

“I promise,” Gerard says, painfully honest. Then he’s letting go of Frank’s hand, cupping his face and mumbling, “Come here,” coaxing Frank closer until their lips meet.

Gerard kisses like he’s on his deathbed, frantic and searing, and if it hurts, then Frank doesn’t notice. All he knows is Gerard’s skin beneath his fingertips, the press of their lips, the warmth of Gerard’s hands on his cheek and back. Everything else is forgotten, and for a moment it’s just them, on Frank’s tiny bed in their college dorm room, and maybe, that’s all they need. Each other.


End file.
